Smoke and Mirrors
by ubikity
Summary: A lot of people—especially Micky—never say what they mean. Peter's POV, Oneshot.


_(AN: While the other relationships between the show's protagonists have always felt pretty straight-forward to me, the Peter/Micky dynamic is… weird. Please enjoy this revolting friendshippy fic that resulted. Monkees courtesy of Raybert Productions. Hot Dogs a la King courtesy of my then 22-year-old uncle.)  
_

* * *

Micky was one of the most confusing people Peter had ever encountered. That was saying a lot, because a lot of things confused Peter, like long division, Mike's fascination with knitted headgear, and why the nightly news was always so violent. Nonetheless, Peter considered Micky to be one of his very best friends. Sometimes, though, he wasn't certain that Micky thought the same way.

* * *

Peter always said exactly what he meant, even if it came out wrong most of the time. For some reason, others did not adhere to the same policy: they sometimes said the opposite of that they meant and other times they said something that had nothing at all to do with what they meant (Mike said these practices were called _sarcasm _and _metaphor, _respectively_)_. Sometimes people would go so far as to answer Peter's questions wrong, even if they really knew the right response. Micky was very often included in those people, and it was a big headache as far as Peter was concerned.

"You can't believe everything Micky says, you know." Davy crossed the room and sat next to Peter on his bed.

"I _know _Mike doesn't have eyes in the back of his head." Micky's answer to the knitted headgear question had resulted in two days of spying. Peter had managed to fall out of a tree five times, since the veterinarian wasn't willing to climb up there and look through the binoculars himself.

"I wasn't referring to that, actually."

Peter tried again. "I know the Hot Dogs a la King weren't _that _bad."

Davy grimaced. "Actually, they were."

Seconds dragged on. "What shouldn't I believe?" Peter said.

"Well, for instance, Micky tells me I punch like a girl."

"I know that you don't-". Davy was one of the most athletic guys Peter knew, and had even been a boxer for a short time.

"So do I. That's the point." The corners of Davy's mouth tugged upwards. "Besides, I know I could beat him in a fight if I wanted." He patted Peter's shoulder as he stood up. "Just… don't take what he says to heart, mate."

Peter was certain that his _heart _was fine (employers were fond of telling him it was in the right place—right before they fired him); it was a different part of him that was stupid. Unlike with Micky, Peter knew that Davy meant well, at least.

It wasn't even just teasing; Micky could be downright nasty. Calling Peter a dummy was one thing, but abusing a housemate's talent for abusing stomachs was quite another.

"What are you making?" Mike surveyed the array of foods on the counter with a suspicious eye.

"Tuna-cough drop cookies," Peter said proudly. "Micky's request."

Mike made a face. "Is he trying to poison somebody?"

As it turned out, that was exactly what Micky was trying to do. Well, not so much _poison _as in _kill _but rather as in_ give her a severe case of indigestion that would prevent her from going to the police to file a complaint about the rosebushes a certain hooligan had inadvertently set on fire_. Peter thought wrapping up indigestion like a peace offering was just about the lousiest thing a neighbor could do, even if Mrs. Horton was cranky, uptight, and had a hobby of scaring away Davy's girlfriends with her jarred fetal pig collection. Mike, Davy, and the hospital receptionist agreed.

* * *

Most of the time, however, Micky was a lot of fun to be around, even if his one-man plays starring James Cagney as Nick Condon, James Cagney as George M. Cohan, and James Cagney as Tom Powers were hard to follow despite repeated viewings. Micky's magic tricks were much better, and he kept promising Peter he'd teach him how to do them soon. For the time being, Peter was content to watch Micky pull doves out of thin air, make them disappear again, and then correctly guess what was in Peter's pockets (holes and lint, for the record).

Once, Peter had asked Micky what the big secret was. "Smoke and mirrors," was his response.

That didn't make any sense at all, because Micky didn't smoke cigarettes and he didn't usually perform his magic tricks in the bathroom.

So Micky obviously hadn't said what he meant.

* * *

But then there were those times when Micky was just plain _confusing_.

Peter knocked on the upstairs bedroom door, then opened it and stepped inside when he didn't get any response.

"Shh." Micky lay on his bed, eyes shut. "I'm in the middle of a fantasy sequence."

"Oh." Peter turned to leave, but the bedroom had already transformed into a Prohibition-era speakeasy, filled the sort of people that his mother would tell him to avoid- loose talkers and fast women. Peter realized that he had stepped into his least favorite of Micky's fantasies: the aliens might lock him in a kennel and feed him dog chow, but at least they didn't usually threaten to shoot him. Then again, no fantasy of Micky's was nearly as awful as the time he had walked in on Mike and Joanie Janz—Peter cringed at the memory. After that, all four Monkees had to have a bizarre chat with somebody who called himself the Assistant Director about wasting production money. Apparently, fantasy sequences were to be used _strictly _for developing the narrative… whatever that meant.

Peter barely had time to take in the new surroundings before beefy hands grabbed the front of his shirt. He watched his feet leave the ground. He squirmed, searching for Micky in the crowd, and then relaxed as he spotted him just past his captor's shoulder. Although he was facing Peter's direction, Peter couldn't help but feel that Micky was looking through him.

"Leave him alone, Zucconi." Micky's voice was almost unrecognizable, like it was made out of steel instead of sunshine. He stuck his jaw out and squared his shoulders even more. His eyes flicked over Peter. "He's not worth the trouble."

Zucconi grunted and let go of Peter's shirt. Peter stumbled backwards, to the sound of Micky telling Peter to run along and not to bother them. Peter caught himself on the edge of a table. The group of men sitting at it glared at him. A pretty girl gratuitously wandered into his field of vision. She smiled at him; Peter felt his face go red. No, this was not a fun fantasy sequence _at all_. He wished Mike or Davy were there, because he felt like he was back in third grade and sitting at the lunch table with him, himself, and his mayonnaise sandwich. He observed Micky waving cigars around and speaking with Zucconi and another guy carrying a valise.

He'd have to wait it out, Peter figured, as he found an empty seat at the bar, and resolved to avoid eye contact in order to stop trouble before it started.

As it turned out, it didn't matter, because just as he was going to ask for a glass of milk, a hair-raising shriek followed by a crash from the back room shattered that notion. Trouble and the Monkees were an inseparable duo, after all. Even in fantasy sequences.

Chaos erupted. Peter knew he had to find Micky, and fast. The more sensible patrons took their cue to leave the establishment while the majority of them ran around in circles, nearly flattening Peter. The pianist played a jaunty pop tune. A man on a unicycle and the pretty girl juggled bottles back and forth. Peter was fairly certain he saw a bear wander past, as he worked his way around the room, looking under all the tables. Micky was nowhere to be found. There was only one thing left to do: Peter headed into the back room.

The cheerful music stopped mid-measure.

Micky sat scrunched up in the corner, slack-jawed and bug-eyed. He shook so much Peter could see the ends of his hair quiver. Zucconi brandished a weapon.

Well, at least it wasn't a gun.

Not that a barbeque fork was any less of a problem, of course.

In one stunning mental leap, Peter understood everything there was to understand about Micky. It was beautifully simple, yet hard to put together just right, like trying to fit all the band equipment into the Monkeemobile. He stashed it away to think about later, when there were fewer plot-related distractions to contend with.

"Alright, Dolenz. We've had enough of your mind games. You've got thirty seconds: hand over the cash." Zucconi glowered menacingly.

Peter said the first thing that came to mind. Politely tapping Zucconi on the shoulder he asked if he'd ever considered whether barbeque had the potential to break into the world of fine cuisine.

Zucconi hadn't.

"Well, there's this new technique I've been testing out…"

"Really?" Zucconi, being more than a casual barbeque-ist himself, was all ears. (Well, not literally, but if Peter was going to be perfectly honest, his ears _were _sort of big.)

"Yeah!" Peter reached and took the fork out of Zucconi's hand. "First, you keep turning the meat over and over—" He mimed this. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Micky get to his feet. "Then, you wave it around so it cools off." Peter did a windmill motion. The fork slipped out of his end and sailed through the open window. Peter frowned. "And that's been the downside to the new technique so far."

Two men who looked just like Zucconi except that they shorter and wore less expensive suits seized Peter by his arms.

Zucconi pointed a handgun at him. Peter shut his eyes-

A snatch of a jaunty pop tune wafted in through the door.

"I can't die; this is a fantasy sequence!" he blurted.

One of Zucconi's henchmen sniggered.

"He's right," Micky said, walking up to Zucconi's side. "Actually, as main characters of a family-friendly television show, we probably can't die at all," he added.

The music's volume increased.

"C'mon." In one swift motion, Micky pulled Peter out into the dance/acrobatics party now in full swing in the main room. The villains followed.

In a few moments, they were safely back in the upstairs bedroom of 1334 Beechwood. Peter suddenly felt a wave of appreciation for the familiar (but still ugly) green curtains and slightly drippy ceiling.

"What did you want?" Micky said at last. He sat up and stretched.

"Mike says it's your turn to unclog the kitchen sink."

* * *

"People are weird, man." Mike plopped down on the sofa. Peter didn't need to ask to know that Mike's attempt to ask Mr. Babbitt to do something about the most recent month-long female infestation (they'd started turning up in the refrigerator, under the beds, and in the bathtub; even Davy'd grown tired of it, and Peter had developed recurring nightmares) had gone less than well. "He just yelled about always having overdue rent—even though we're paid up. For the next two months in advance, too."

Micky hauled two girls by down the staircase by their sleeves and deposited them outside the front door. Peter and Mike watched glumly.

"You're wrong," Peter said.

Mike frowned. "About the advanced rent?"

"No, about people." Peter imagined all his thoughts out in front of him, like they were individual ingredients ready to be assembled into one nausea-inducing casserole. "Some people aren't secure in who they are, so they have to build themselves up by trying to poke holes in others. They're afraid of themselves, and they're afraid of other people who are stronger or braver or more content than they are too. You can't be angry at them, because they probably don't even realize they do it. You can't pity them because that's just… condescending, so you've got to help them become the best they can be." He contemplated the bedroom door, where Micky had again retreated, likely again constructing an alternate self. _That's what friends are for, _he added silently, because he was pretty sure Mike didn't consider the landlord to be a friend.

"Most people are easy to figure out, really," he concluded.


End file.
